


Save Me

by bearmitage



Series: (Ineffable Husbands) The Ineffable Playlist [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gentle Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gentle Sex, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Porn with Feelings, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Smut, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Trauma, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:02:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29444514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearmitage/pseuds/bearmitage
Summary: Crowley hates his own wings, he hates how they remind him that he is despised by heaven and that he has been condemned.When Aziraphale asked him if he could see his wings, Crowley was terrified— partly because he was afraid of those haunting memories.But mostly because he was afraid that Aziraphale would never accept him— that the angel would finally realise that he was the Fallen.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: (Ineffable Husbands) The Ineffable Playlist [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2162808
Comments: 7
Kudos: 43





	Save Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is the work written from Crowley's perspective based on my 'Spread Your Wing.' Please feel free to check it out.

Crowley recalls the time when the Fall happened like it was yesterday. Many he knew were falling from heaven— _they were falling out of favours, falling from grace._

  
  


And he was one of them— _the Fallen_. 

  
  


Everything flashed before his eyes when it happened. He recalls the feeling of being burnt and the sound of agonising shrieks all around him. Crowley heard some cry out in pain whilst others were so traumatised they were frozen in such a shock and could not respond at all.

  
  


The fire was so scorching, hotter than anything he had ever experienced in his entire existence. The flame burned to the touch and his white stainless wings were afire. His eyes were blistering as if somebody had poured the hottest flame into them. He saw his own hands turned into the colour of ashes as he was trying to reach up just one more time to heaven, to the Almighty who had, he soon realised, _pushed him away_.

  
  


And when he hit the ground, it caused all the grief.

  
  


Crowley laid there silently, unable to move, for the moment long enough he felt like it was an eternity, “ _My Lord_ , _please, please— save me,”_ whimpered Crowley when he had enough strength, gasping as if the air was punched out of him in the greatest affliction with hands covered in ashes reaching up to heaven and his body burnt as though it was infected with the deadly fever. 

  
  


‘ _Why have you forsaken me?’_

  
  


But his bitter cry was never heard. He cried out to the Almighty, but there was no answer; he tried to stand up, but heaven merely looked at him.

  
  


Perplexed and traumatised, he groaned and choked on the agony, trying to push himself up from the ground where he fell. Crowley looked at himself, all bruised and dusty and covered in black as dark as the deepest pit, before looking at his wings. 

  
  


The skin around them was darkened and peeled and the wings were covered in ashes— and what that was once as white as snow was burnt by the flame and went dark grey like the sky in the starless night, almost black. Gathering all strength left in his torn body, he tried to flutter them in the air, _trying to fly up to heaven_ — _to his home where he belonged_.

  
  


The hoop tightened around his neck, pulling him back to the ground. Crowley screeched loudly in pain, hands scrambling to untie the rope that became tighter and tighter every second. It cut his skin, causing him to gasp for air whilst dragging and pulling him to the ground like he was a helpless wounded animal. 

  
  


There were lights behind him, bright enough to blind any mortal’s eyes. Crowley’s eyes widened when he looked back and saw those familiar faces. He tried to flee but there was no use. The rope became tighter when one of them pulled it, yanking him closer and hard enough he was dragged to their feet. 

  
  


“ _Please,_ ” pleaded Crowley, his voice trembling and his entire body shaking when he saw the sharpest axe in their hand, “ _Please, please_ — _please spare me.”_

  
  


When the axe hit his wings, his scream was so loud it made the whole ground shake.

  
  


The condemnation was roaring from heaven as it was the ferocious storm.

  
  


_‘Upon your belly shall you go, and dust shall you eat all the days of your life. Man shall crush your head and you shall bruise his heel.’_

  
  


He was condemned, pushed away and forsaken— and as much as he longs to fly back to heaven, he knows it is no longer his _home_.

  
  


And he simply _cannot_ fly back there anymore.

  
  


Crowley cannot bear to look at his wings. They remind him of such an agony he wishes he was so utterly traumatised like some of his people who cannot remember anything so he does not have to relive the past when the darkest nightmares revisit him in his sleep— of how he is despised by heaven and how he has been condemned.

  
  


When Aziraphale asked him if he could see his wings, Crowley was terrified— partly because he was afraid of those haunting memories.

  
  


But mostly because he was afraid that once Aziraphale actually sees what happened, he would never _accept_ him— that the angel would finally realise that he was _the Fallen_.

  
  


Fingers shaking, Crowley is now utterly nervous in Aziraphale’s lap with his wings spreading wide and free in the air as if they were enjoying their _freedom_. 

  
  


“We do not need to do this if you do not want to, my dear,” remarks Aziraphale, those fingertips brushing on his face gently and the kind blue eyes never leaving his face, “You know I will never want to do anything that you do not wish to do, don’t you?”

  
  


“‘Course, angel, I do,” He replies quickly as anything, licking his lower lip and barely looking at his angel in the eyes, “It’s just, well, I just— I just found they look _odd_ , that’s all.”

  
  


“Well, let me assure you that they do not. It is all in your pretty head, darling,” the angel replies with his signature encouraging and loving smile on his porcelain face and a light touch from the tip of his finger on his temple.

  
  


Crowley lifts his face up and inhales sharply, trying to lighten up the mood around them with a dramatic pout he knows would make the angel chuckle, “Oh— so demons be crazy, eh?” _and Aziraphale did chuckle_ — he breathes out slowly, hands fidgeting, “‘S fine, angel. It really is.”

  
  


The angel nods and places his own lips on Crowley’s lips gently as if he is made of the most fragile glass, both warm hands guiding his hands to rest on top of the strong shoulders and Crowley complies. Aziraphale trails the kiss down the side of his neck and when the angel wraps his arms around Crowley’s waist and tugs him closer, he whimpers.

  
  


“Tell me if it is too much for you, will you, dearheart?” Aziraphale whispers next to his neck. Nervously, Crowley replies with the quiet hum in his throat.

  
  


The angel’s touch is slow and gentle like the first time they made love. Aziraphale has always been gentle, generous and attentive— he is everything one can ever ask for.

  
  


As a matter of fact, the angel is too good to be true— _for someone like him._

  
  


Aziraphale rolls his hips, roaming his hands all around Crowley’s body and making him let out the breathy gasp. He slides his hand down from the angel’s shoulder and places it on one of Aziraphale’s hands before guiding it up against his mouth.

  
  


Crowley looks into those bright blue eyes when his tongue touches and laps at the angel’s fingers lightly as if they were the morning dews on fragile leaves, giving him a sly smirk he knows that would light Aziraphale on fire hotter than the flame of hell.

  
  


But then he sees it— _the mirror_ — _his wings._

  
  


In some ways, it is simpler— being too blind to see. He does not even want to wake up to see anything that is around him because when he is wide awake, it seems too much to take. And he just wants to close his eyes for he fears his heart will break.

  
  


So he shuts his eyes immediately, trying to push those memories that come through like a flood back to the back of his mind.

  
  


Aziraphale’s fingers leave his mouth and Crowley cannot contain the moan that leaves his lips when Aziraphale’s soaking wet fingers re-enter his body in a different way. 

  
  


“Does that feel good, my love?” whispers the angel next to his ear softly, akin to a coo used for comforting a wounded animal. Aziraphale lifts another hand that is free to wind into his hair before gently putting his head to the side and placing a sucking kiss on Crowley’s neck. Crowley moans whisperingly, knowing those lips will leave a bruise tomorrow morning, “Tell me how you feel.”

  
  


Aziraphale is always gentle and loving, unlike anyone or anything he has ever experienced. Crowley writhes at the touch. He feels like he is falling from the highest heaven unless this time it is much more pleasant and utterly perfect with his angel holding him in his arms.

  
  


Crowley’s fingers twine in the beautiful curly blonde locks like a serpent on the tree branch in a helplessly weak attempt to find something to ground himself when Aziraphale presses against that bundle of nerves that make the stars he once helped create floating behind his eyelids.

  
  


“Y— yes, ‘s good, ‘s—” Crowley gasps nearly breathlessly, finally being able to utter his answer, burying his face in Aziraphale’s hair and cursing under his hitching breathe, “ _Fucking hell_.” 

  
  


Those fingers move, scissoring him open with the firm, assuring pressure until Crowley feels like someone has picked apart his sanity completely, like he can come from this alone. His hips buck at their own will and he lets Aziraphale know by moaning encouragingly. 

  
  


Suddenly, Aziraphale stops and the whine slips out of Crowley’s mouth before he could stop it, “Oh, rest easy, darling, I have got you,” 

  
  


He gasps loudly, earning a soft angelic chuckle, when those fingers curl just the right way, sending the heavenly— _or hellish_ , _he does not know anymore_ — pleasure up his spine, “Just tell me what you need.”

  
  


_‘Need? Who cares about what you need? They never did, and they will never do.’_

  
  


Hearing that voice, his breath catches up in his throat. Crowley bits his lip, trying not to think about that voice in his head because, of course, Aziraphale cares, he always does.

  
  


But then it replies.

_‘Oh, is that right? How do you know that they are not just using you? Heaven folks, aren’t they all the same, Crowley?’_

  
  


He remains silent, now burying his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. He is too afraid to ask— and he is fighting, with that cruel voice _._

  
  


“Use your words, dearheart,” says Aziraphale gently, inserting the third finger which makes Crowley let out a surprised choking noise, another one that escaped before he could bite his own lip so it would not slip. 

  
  


But his mind is not entirely there. He is still trying to fight his _own_ demon.

Aziraphale rubs those fingers against that sensitive spot inside of him whilst keeping his hand that is on his waist firmly, making it impossible for Crowley to move. And it is not enough. Not enough and Crowley clenches his hands into fists hard enough to make his knuckles whiten.

  
  


‘ _You don’t deserve it.’_

  
  


“You deserve it, my love,” the angel whispers and Crowley whines like a wounded animal when the pressure is increased, shaking his head when he hears Aziraphale’s words, “You simply need to say it, tell me.”

  
  


_‘No, you don’t.’_

  
  


Every little touch from his angel sends the pleasure through Crowley’s body like a flooding wave and the hands which have turned into fists and those knuckles that are now completely white from the clench are trembling and— 

  
  


“ _Please,_ ” Crowley barely realises that it is him uttering those words, every sound ringing foreign to his own ears. It is difficult, so difficult for each syllable to come out.

  
  


“What was that, Crowley?” asks Aziraphale and Crowley’s breath hitches, his face wincing. _More_ — he needs more. 

  
  


“Please, angel, I—”

  
  


“Tell me that you deserve it,” his angel replies with the sterner voice, that perfect nose nuzzling on his sweat-soaked hair. “You have been so good, and that is the truth, so you need to tell me that you have been good. You always are, my dear.”

  
  


_‘Good? Oh really? If you were_ , _very well,_ _good, you would still be an angel, wouldn’t you? You know damn well Aziraphale is lying, he wants something from you and you know it.’_

  
  


“I—” No— Crowley says to the voice, _Aziraphale is not like that_ , “I, ngk, _angel_ , please—”

  
  


_‘And even if he is not like that, you don’t deserve it.’_

  
  


“Say it, darling, say that you are good and you deserve everything good, that you deserve this,” he whispers into Crowley’s ears, keeping him close to his chest whilst Crowley is shaking his head in the crook of his neck, trying to fight back those voices with little strength left in his trembling body, “Just say it and I will give you everything.”

  
  


_‘No, you don’t. And you never will.’_

  
  


“I don’t— angel, I don’t—,” _Crowley lost,_ “ _I don’t deserve it._ ”

  
  


Aziraphale sighs and pulls Crowley out of his embrace. His fingers leave his body and for a second, Crowley is terrified that the voice might be right and he does not even dare to hold onto his angel for the fear that he might be pushed away— _forsaken_ — again.

  
  


“Of course, you do,” Crowley whimpers, almost too contently, when the gentle kisses are placed on his damp eyelashes— he just realises that he has been crying, “You always do, Crowley.”

  
  


And as if Aziraphale is trying to prove that he means it, the angel buries himself inside Crowley completely, making him let out an involuntary cry and his whole body including his wings jolting from the overwhelming pleasure.

  
  


Crowley closes his eyes tightly, his face looks up to the ceiling and his back arches when Aziraphale thrusts upwards. The air is knocked from his lungs and all of his limbs are now dangerously weak and melting in his angel’s arm. 

  
  


Aziraphale inhales sharply and lets out the heavenly moan next to his ear. Crowley can feel his own wings flutter harder on their own accord and Aziraphale reaches out to brush the feather so very lightly—

  
  


_And at that moment, Crowley feels like he could touch heaven._

  
  


His mouth opens wide but no words besides the broken and pleasured gasp comes out. Electricity runs through every single nerve. And his wings flutter ferociously like a thunderstorm. It feels utterly levitating as if Aziraphale gives him an ability to fly again and he is flying high— so high, he is so high that he can see an angel. Beyond a bliss. Beyond any existence.

  
  


“Look at me, darling,” Aziraphale quickly says, voice as gentle as a morning light, when Crowley’s eyes snap open, “Look into my eyes.”

  
  


And Crowley obeys. He looks into those loving blue eyes when their foreheads touch through the veil of his eyelashes.

  
  


There is something in Aziraphale’s eyes— _something that the voice in his head will never stop telling him that he will never deserve it._

  
  


He stares at the love of his life’s face helplessly as though he was a lost lamb, with tears streaming down and his own mouth trying to form words which he does not even know what they are.

  
  


Nevertheless, Aziraphale will always know. The angel strokes those trembling feathers gently at first, then a bit bolder— _then he kisses them._

  
  


And at that moment, the universe only exists in front of him and the rest is rust and stardust.

  
  


“Angel— angel, _ah_ , I—” gasps Crowley breathlessly, face looking up to the sky once again with his mouth hanging open from all the pleasures he never thought he would be given, “I’m going to—”

  
  


“Let go, Crowley, come for me,” the angel lets out a hoarse reply, and Crowley feels like he is once again falling from heaven— _only this time Aziraphale has got him,_ “dearheart, I have got you.” 

  
  


Crowley lets out a sob for all these overwhelming feelings bursting inside him, holding onto his angel tight when another kiss is placed on one of his crippled feathers and that is all it takes for the pleasure to wash over him. He closes his eyes and he thinks he might be crying out Aziraphale’s name then resting his head on the crook of that smooth neck. 

  
  


Aziraphale holds him close, and one, two more thrusts from his hips and Crowley believes he might have heard _those three simple words_ among those deep, frantic sounds of heartbeats— _he does not dare to ask._

  
  


Everything becomes completely still as if the time is now frozen around them.

  
  


“ _Thank you, angel,_ ” says Crowley quietly after the long silence, managing to gather that little courage left inside of him.

  
  


His angel gently pulls him away from his own neck and looks at him with that angelic smile Crowley will always cherish, “For what, my dear? The good thwarting, you meant?” 

  
  


He rolls his eyes at his angel, theatrically, of course, before licking his lips and answering, “You know what I meant.”

  
  


And Aziraphale simply kisses him again.

  
  


Crowley knows that the voice may never leave him and that he will take it with him but at this certain moment, he can put it down in the pleasure of Aziraphale’s company.

  
  


And though there might be no grand choirs to sing nor any chorus will come in and no ballad will be written, all of these will be entirely forgotten and if tomorrow heaven and hell will come back, at least they have had it for a moment.

  
  


And though things are ineffable and, perhaps, inevitable, for a moment, in Aziraphle’s arms, the voice is silent— _and Crowley knows he is safe, even if it is just a while._

  
  


_And that is all that matters._

**Author's Note:**

> Very well, I got carried away by the idea of all the traumas whilst listening to Florence + the Machine and thought it would be interesting to see things from Crowley's perspective. And it was indeed an interesting piece to write and explore with a bunch of references from the Bible (mainly from Genesis and Job) (and if I could just dive in there, I would give anything to do it so I could give our Crowley a big hug and tell him that he is loved deeply and widely and that he deserves everything, so kudos to Aziraphale for doing that, I believe we owe him loads of crepes!)
> 
> Oddly enough, I have this strange feeling that we are all Crowley in some way when life is not kind to us, that we have this cruel noise in our head telling us that good thing will never come and that even though it will come, we might not deserve it. So, I reckon, hugs for everyone who feels this way. God knows we all need one.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it (though it is rather selfish since I did it all for myself and gather all of you here to hide from that immense unexplainable empty fear), and even if this is just a temporary escape from all things going on, I really do appreciate all of you and your company.
> 
> Much love xx
> 
> P.S. thank Queen again for the title, I simply run out of an idea :/  
> P.S.2 as always, please feel free to say hello or drop by. I'm always on Twitter @bearmitage :)


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